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I

ANONYMOUS.

SONG.

DO confefs thou'rt smooth and fair,

And I might have been brought to love thee;

But that I found the flightest pray'r

That breath could move, had power to move thee;

But I can leave thee now alone

As worthy to be lov'd by none.

I do confefs thou'rt fweet, but find
Thee fuch an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favours are but like the wind

That kiffeth every thing it meets.
Then, fince thou canft with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be kiss'd by none.

The virgin rofe, that untouch'd stands,

Arm'd with its briers, how fweet it fmells!
But pluck'd and ftrain'd through ruder hands,
Its fweet no longer with it dwells.
But fcent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves drop from it one by one.

Such fate, ere long, will thee betide,
When thou haft handled been a while;
With fear-flow'rs to be thrown aside,

And I fhall figh, while fome will smile.

To fee thy love for every one

Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none!

SONG.

IN faith 'tis true, I am in love, 'Tis your black have made me fo;

eyes

My refolutions they remove,

And former nicenefs overthrow.

But, beauty, fince it is thy fate,

At distance thus to wound fo fure; Thy virtues I will imitate,

And fee if distance prove a cure.

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I pretend not to the wife ones,
To the grave, to the grave,
Or the precife ones.

'Tis not cheeks, nor lips, nor eyes,

That I prize,

Quick conceits, or sharp replies;

If wife thou wilt appear, and knowing,

Repartee, repartee,

To what I'm doing.

Prithee, why the room fo dark?

Not a spark

Left to light me to the mark.

I love daylight, or a candle,
And to fee, and to fee

As well as handle.

Why fo many bolts and locks,
Coats and fmocks,

And those drawers, with a pox ?

I could wish, could nature make it,
Nakedness, nakedness
Itself were naked.

SONG.

MORPHEUS, the humble god, that dwells In cottages and fmoky cells,

Hates gilded roofs, and beds of down; And, though he fears no prince's frown, Flees from the circle of a crown.

Come, I fay, thou pow'rful god,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipp'd in the Lethean lake,
O'er his wakeful temples shake,
Left he should fleep, and never wake.

Nature, alas! why art thou fo
Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,

Yet of death it bears a taste,
And both are the same thing at last.

W. MAY

SONG

IN THE OLD COUPLE.

DEAR, do not your beauty wrong,
In thinking ftill you are too young;
The rofe and lilies in your cheek
Flourish, and no more ripeness seek.

Your cherry lip, red, foft, and fweet, Proclaims fuch fruit for tafte most meet; Then lofe no time, for love has wings, And flies away from aged things.

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